


Come Down and Be Mine

by stardropdream



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Episode Related, Implied Sexual Content, Introspection, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-28
Updated: 2015-02-28
Packaged: 2018-03-15 16:56:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3454751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardropdream/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aramis knows he should be disgusted with himself, for seeking his own comfort when Porthos’ heart must be broken. (Coda fic for 1x08)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Come Down and Be Mine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jlarinda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jlarinda/gifts).



> Wow, more portamis. Shocker of shocks, but going on back to the first season for a coda fic of 1x08! Written for the prompt from JL for Aramis to be clingy and mopey after Alice and Porthos reassuring him.

**0.**  
It feels like it’s been hours, days. It feels like it’s been years and still his heart won’t unclench. He drags his thumb along the lip of his half-empty cup of wine and knows he’s possibly overdone it. He’s never taken to drink the way Porthos has, and certainly never to the extent that Athos drowns himself. 

It isn’t until after. It’s after the third time that d’Artagnan tears up around the lip of his wine cup. It’s after they stop politely turning away to pretend not to notice and instead just thump him warmly on the back. 

It’s after making sure that the captain has settled and his arm isn’t causing him trouble. It’s after Athos has lugged a drunken, pleased (but heartbroken, still) d’Artagnan towards his new quarters in the garrison. It’s after Aramis and Porthos are left to their own drink. 

It’s after all this that Aramis knows he can’t shake the feeling. He can’t breathe for it – still remembers that hot flash of jealousy, that cold sting of refusal. Refusal to accept, refusal to believe. He’d almost lost Porthos. 

 

 **I.**  
“Hey,” Porthos says, quiet, because of course he’d have noticed the shift in Aramis – he always could read him too well. He leans in close and Aramis drags his eyes over his face and down along the collar of his shirt, laced and scalloped just the way to accent Porthos’ jaw line – a personal choice for Porthos from Aramis. 

The stem of jealousy growing inside of him twists up into a coiled, complicated mess. 

The change in his expression must be clear, because Porthos sighs, takes up their cups, and sets them aside. “Come on,” he says. “Let’s head back, too.” 

Aramis says nothing, knows better than to say anything when they’re out in public like this. The wine has loosened his tongue and if he speaks now, he knows what he’ll say. The din of the tavern is loud enough and pervasive enough that a private conversation is possible, but Aramis and Porthos both prefer the relative quiet of the streets of Paris, or the safety behind closed doors. Porthos has always only ever worn his heart on his sleeve, and secrecy is not always his best suit. Aramis, for all his discretion in the past, can never hide the way he looks at Porthos – never for long. 

He’s in love with him. And a fool he is to only fully realize it when he’s moments away from _leaving_. 

 

 **II.**  
It’s quiet.

Aramis looks down at his boots as they walk and Porthos is uncommonly silent. Aramis knows he should say something. _Anything._

When Aramis glances at him, his expression is cast off, far away and thoughtful. Thinking about his widow – Alice, he mentally corrects – undoubtedly. Aramis knows he should ask him, should tease out the words Porthos isn’t saying. He knows that for all the years Porthos has sat beside Aramis and let him speak of things long gone and forgotten, he should be able to do the same. He thinks of comforting Porthos, who grieves for Alice.

The jealousy twists up inside of him again, followed by the jab of his own self-loathing. Selfish for it when he knows how much Porthos must miss her, how hard it must have been to let her go. The jealousy twists up to think of Porthos missing her. 

He was going to _marry_ her. He was going to _leave._

Whenever he tries to calm down with it, that same thought jogs back into his memory and he almost can’t breathe with it. 

He drags his eyes away from Porthos after several steps and stares straight ahead. 

He can imagine it, of course, and god, he wants Porthos to be happy, to be safe, to have everything he wants and deserves and more. He can picture Porthos stretched out in a luxurious bed, loved by a beautiful woman. Smiling, eyes soft, no new scars dragging over his back. Never fearing when he’ll eat next, never fearing when he’ll sleep next, never fearing that he’ll be warm and safe and happy. He’d be happy – a wonderful husband. An amazing father. 

Aramis’ throat closes up. 

When he thinks of Porthos, he envisions curling up at his side when the nights get cold, when the snow threatens to remind him of years long past. Porthos is always warm, always gentle, his arms always secured around him. They have their long history together, longer than most even realize or care to understand. He’s known Porthos since the first moment he walked into the garrison, sullen and withdrawn, with everything to prove. He’s known Porthos since the first moment their eyes met and Aramis felt a strange spark of kinship. He’s known Porthos since the first time he ever heard him laugh and Aramis knew he was _gone_. He’s known Porthos since the first moment they looked at each other with something other than friendship and seemed to melt into each other, Porthos’ arms curling around him in the middle of the night when Aramis’ nightmares shook him awake. He’s known Porthos since the moment he held Aramis like that and admitted that he always had nightmares as a child, offering no information other than that but knowing it was a test – and Aramis clinging to him then. 

He’s known Porthos for so long that it’s a wonder he hadn’t realized how deeply he’d fallen until the moment he thought Porthos wouldn’t come back.

He thinks about Porthos married and _gone_ , no longer a soldier, no longer there every day with a smile, a look, a silent exchange. He envisions a life without Porthos. 

 

 **III.**  
Porthos grabs his wrist and drags him into the room. Aramis isn’t quite startled, always relenting to Porthos’ touch, always drawn back into him. But he does look up. Aramis sets him in a spot in the center of the room. 

He should be pleased to have this moment alone with Porthos. 

They stand in a relative silence for a long moment before Porthos removes his cloak and his coat, sets them down over his chair and turns to look at Aramis. It takes a moment for Aramis’ unresponsive fingers to do their work, but he pulls off his own cloak and coat in turn and hands them to Porthos, stiff and uncertain. 

“Talk to me,” Porthos instructs.

Aramis focuses on settling his breath and keeping himself where he stands.

 

 **IV.**  
He knows what he should say: 

_I love you. I need you. I want you. I was so scared of losing you._

But his tongue is heavy. Aramis licks his lips and sighs out, stepping into Porthos’ personal space with an ease born from years of melting the line between where Aramis ends and Porthos begins. 

He fiddles with Porthos’ collar, the beautiful lace he chose for him specifically because he wanted to help him seduce his widow. He could smack himself now. 

He fixes the collar, if only for something to do – if only for an excuse to let his breath touch at Porthos’ neck, his fingertips to kiss along his skin. He thinks of what he could say. He thinks of what he should say, the words dripping down through him, honeyed and vulnerable. He thinks of telling Porthos the full truth, to see his scorn and frustration at Aramis’ pettiness. 

What an ugly person he must seem now. 

He touches at Porthos’ throat, feels the whispered hum of Porthos’ breath, the slight curve of his adam’s apple. 

Aramis knows what he should say. But he doesn’t say it. 

“You look too damn handsome.” 

Porthos makes a sound of surprise – but Aramis ignores it in favor of smoothing out the collar for him, his fingertips brushing over Porthos’ neck, the scratch of his beard along his neck. 

“You were going to get married,” Aramis continues, and he hopes his voice sounds as neutral as he’s trying to make it – but knows he failed. 

He looks up at Porthos. He’s looking at him, only him, and his expression is fond. He isn’t quite smiling, but his eyes are warm and they smile for him. Fond is better than angry, perhaps. Certainly better than the glare he’d sent him at the challenge. This, instead, is something fonder, something sadder. 

Still, Aramis feels foolish. 

Porthos' warm eyes are on him, watching Aramis very carefully. Porthos’ hand falls onto Aramis’ hip, heavy and comforting, and he squeezes once.

“Aramis,” Porthos begins. But Aramis shakes his head. He doesn’t want to talk about it. 

Porthos sighs out and opens up his arms. Aramis hesitates for half a moment and then lets himself be wrapped up in a hug, melting against him. He presses his lips to his neck, breathes him in. Porthos kisses the top of his head, his touch gentle. 

Aramis swallows down, can feel his throat click. 

Porthos’ large hand slides into his hair. His fingertips brush small circles along his scalp and Aramis shivers again, needs it and yet does not deserve it. It is pleasant, but not what Aramis wants. 

He wants Porthos to shove him back onto the bed, fuck him senseless. He wants to kiss Porthos for hours and hours and never grow tired of it. He wants to make Porthos forget Alice’s name and never think of her again – and the thought that he almost lost this, almost lost _him_ , is unbearable. The thought of asking and being told that it can only be Alice drags down inside of him, twisting up and coiling. He is being irrational – but he feels it still. He doesn’t know what he’d have done if the answer to holding tight to Porthos could only ever be ‘not anymore, not again’. 

He doesn’t know what he’d have done if Porthos had told him that there was someone he loves – and it isn’t Aramis. 

It’s useless to think of ‘what if’s. Alice is gone. She won’t return. But Porthos’ eyes are heavy, his look is far off and thinking of _her_ and Aramis is so jealous. So very jealous. For all the lovers between the two of them, there has never been a danger to Aramis that he should lose Porthos – that Porthos should decide to not come back. That he is not Porthos’ favorite, best friend and brother. 

 

 **V.**  
“You’re pouting,” Porthos says after a moment and it feels like it’s been hours since Porthos drew him into his arms. Aramis could stay like this forever. 

Aramis draws back to give him a look, and he doesn’t think he’s pouting, but then Porthos is looking at him fondly again, expression soft, and Aramis feels untethered, unweighted. Drifting. 

“You were going to marry her,” Aramis says as answer, knows he is ridiculous and knows that he cannot hide that from Porthos even if he tried. He swallows thickly, attempts to sound playful, teasing, rather than miserable, rather than heartbroken, “You were going to leave me. This is _not_ why I dressed you up.” 

A silence follows his words and he fears he’s said too much, that Porthos will scoff, will scold. 

The room is too quiet. 

Instead, Porthos looks at him for a long moment, that thoughtful look he gets when he’s trying to puzzle through a difficult word he’s never read before, or determine the best course of action through a stealth mission. Aramis shivers a little. Porthos chews on his lip once, swipes his tongue in a way that is utterly distracting. Aramis blinks and breathes out, shaky. 

“Then I suppose I should give it back to you,” Porthos agrees and his voice is so quiet. 

He steps back from Aramis and his hands lift, stripping Aramis down. Aramis lets him, quiet and uncertain, letting him do as he pleases and uncertain what to say, if anything at all. He stands there, lifting his arms obediently when Porthos strips down his braces and then lifts off his tunic. He stays quiet until he’s standing in front of Porthos naked and vulnerable. He shivers again in the chill of the evening air, but he’s half-hard just from Porthos’ hands on him and he can’t even be ashamed of it. Porthos touches his hands to his cheeks and leans in, kissing him gently. Aramis tips his chin up, sighs out and opens his mouth to Porthos – kisses him back, hands lifting to touch at his wrists – wanting to feel this forever. 

And then Porthos breaks the kiss, pulls off the laced collared shirt Aramis chose for him, and puts it on Aramis. It hangs heavy on his shoulders and Aramis blinks once before Porthos is in his space again, picking him up easily, carrying him, and pressing him down onto the bed. 

He kisses him deeply and Aramis arches, bites back a pained whimper with his longing. He can’t shake the feeling, he just can’t – Porthos is right here, Porthos is here with _him_ and yet all he can think about is losing him, never having him again, having to see him be happy and in love with someone who isn’t him. They can never get married. They can never have a true life. But for all their years together, Aramis has never doubted that Porthos would return to him – and he wonders if Porthos has ever doubted Aramis, if he has ever feared losing Aramis. He shakes with the thought of it and his breath hitches up into a half-sob before he can stop it.

Porthos draws back from where he’s kissing him and presses his forehead to his. Aramis breathes out, shaky, hates that he feels like he’ll cry. 

“I’m here,” Porthos says, because he is perfect and seems to always know what Aramis wants to hear. 

Aramis curls his arms around his shoulders, the long sleeves of Porthos’ shirt billowing down to his elbows. The fabric is soft, pooling down at his shoulders, and he feels warm and protected. 

They have done this so many times before, for years now, more times than Aramis can count or remember. But this is the first time that he’s realized how much he needs Porthos, in the end. 

Aramis makes a soft sound, full of longing, and Porthos’ eyes darken. Aramis breathes out, kisses sidelong over his jaw. Aramis puts his hand in Porthos’ hair. He swipes his thumb in a small movement across the skin behind Porthos’ ear. 

The room is very quiet, save for the soft exhale of Porthos’ breath.

“Aramis,” he says. 

 

 **VI.**  
Porthos lays worship to him, as he always does. When Porthos wishes to be, he is methodical. He works Aramis open, drags him down through his own pleasure, lays down upon him with lips and tongue and teeth until Aramis begs for it. 

Still, the jealousy niggles at the back of his throat and he tries to focus on Porthos – tries to focus on Porthos’ hands on him, his mouth against his pulse point. But he breathes in and the jealousy surges. 

He shouldn’t, he knows. And yet he breathes out, face tipped back and away from the shirt that slumps across his chest, Porthos’ hands beneath it, “It smells like perfumes. It smells like her.” 

Porthos snorts, and at least he seems amused in the face of Aramis’ pettiness, because he doesn’t know what he’d do if it were the opposite, if Porthos looked at him in anger, looked at him in disgust. Through it all, he can only ever want Porthos to look at him like he’s everything. 

Porthos says, his lips quirking into a small smile, “Those are your perfumes.”

Aramis frowns, about to protest. 

But Porthos leans in, kisses over his jaw, his teeth dragging. He laughs as he whispers out against the curve of his jaw, “It’s yours – it’s lingered this long. Look at how much you worked to make me pretty.” 

He runs his hands down Aramis’ chest, pushes up underneath the laced shirt, and his blunt nails drag across his skin, thumbs dragging pointedly over his scars. Aramis gasps out, quiet, and arches up. When he blinks his eyes open, Porthos is watching him, his smile soft. 

“Look at how good you made me look,” he continues before Aramis can speak, leaning in and kissing him – soft and gentle, lingering. He adjusts the collar for Aramis, and Aramis can’t breathe as Porthos drags his teeth over his bottom lip. “You always take good care of me.” 

Aramis feels as if he will tremble. Porthos smiles at him, warmed and gentled. Aramis can feel the muscles in his legs and in his stomach start to tremble, but Porthos reaches up his hand to cup around the curve of his hip again. Fully unnecessary, perhaps, just a desire for contact, a tether. But exactly what Aramis needs. His fingers dig into Porthos’ shoulders. 

 

 **VII.**  
Porthos pushes Aramis down, folds their fingers together, presses down above him and Aramis can’t breathe for the weight on him – Porthos, just Porthos, utterly and completely his. 

“I’m here,” Porthos says again. 

Aramis knows he should be disgusted with himself, to be so petty and so triumphant to know that he’s the one tucked up beneath Porthos now, the one to feel his skin, to feel his mouth, to feel his breath. He should be disgusted, but instead he’s hard and yearning, whining out Porthos’ name like a prayer. 

He knows this man. This man who covers his body with his own, who kisses him like he’s breathing for the first time, who looks at him as if he is the only one in the world. 

He knows this man and to him, he is worthy. He tightens his hold on Porthos’ hands. 

“Porthos,” he gasps out.

Porthos doesn’t answer him in words. He lets Aramis surge up and kiss him. He kisses across his face – the scar over his eye, the slump of his nose, the pout of his lips, the curve of his cheeks, the dip of his dimples. He is slow, worshipful, unable to breathe without thinking of Porthos – who fills him and devours him, who holds him down and leaves him feeling safe, leaves him feeling more. 

For all his strength, Porthos has never hurt him. For all his strength, Porthos is the one to anchor him down again. 

 

 **VIII.**  
Porthos fucks into him and it is dragging and it is sweet and there is a crippling vulnerability to the way that Porthos uses his strength, the way he could choke the life from Aramis, hurt him, destroy him – with his strength or even with his words. He’s only ever been able to be Porthos’, like this, known so completely and understood so fully. 

He doesn’t need to say the words for Porthos to know. Porthos spells it out across his skin, carves it into his skin with his kisses. 

Aramis cries out, arches, as Porthos rocks into him – sweetness and gentleness, although Aramis thinks he deserves the pain, deserves the torture, deserves the slow, unrelenting drag. 

But Porthos has only ever treated him as precious. 

 

 **IX.**  
When Aramis comes, it is with Porthos’ name on his lips – and Porthos’ mouth slanting against his to swallow down his breath.

He shivers, curls into him, clings to him. 

Porthos anchors him down. Aramis turns his face to press against the pillow, feels the gentle scratch of the laced collar against his cheek – it smells like the perfumes. It smells like Porthos. It smells like _them._

 

 **X.**  
“Are you feeling better now?” Porthos asks once Aramis has caught his breath.

Porthos drags his fingers down over Aramis’ arm, slow, intricate patterns with no purpose. Aramis is curled up into his arms, head pillowed against his chest, hearing his heartbeat. 

Aramis knows he should be disgusted with himself, for seeking his own comfort when Porthos’ heart must be broken. He curls his hand against Porthos’ chest before he unfurls it and splays it out over his stomach, touches at one of the scars there. He breathes out, tips his chin up to look at Porthos. 

He should be disgusted that he sought his own comfort over Porthos’, but Porthos looks at him like he is everything, like he is worth protecting. 

He knows what he should say.

“I love you,” he says and holds his breath. 

Porthos’ face ripples once and then breaks into an open smile, wide and unrelenting, lighting up his eyes, his dimples flashing. He fixes Aramis’ collar for him, the blunt edge of his nails touching at the line of his jaw – and Aramis still holds his breath. 

“I love you, too,” Porthos says, like it’s easy – because for Porthos, it has only ever been that easy.

**Author's Note:**

> I can be found [on my tumblr](http://stardropdream.tumblr.com/).


End file.
